


She May Smile Like Flowers But She Tastes Like Stars

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Catholicism, F/F, Implied Transphobia, Like imagine they got stuck in brideshead revisited, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans!Amren, but not well written, that's the AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 22:58:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12199080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: 'She coats her pencils in lipgloss so citrus chases her scribbles, spends art class studying flowers and doodling plush lips in the most curious of half smiles. It feels a little bit like it might be love.'_________________________In which Amren and Elain attend an old-fashioned All-Girls Catholic Boarding School and may or may not be having a secret affair.





	She May Smile Like Flowers But She Tastes Like Stars

**Author's Note:**

> A quick heads up - written at 1am, contains 'Catholicism' in so much as the trope of 'Religious Boarding School Represses Epic Gay Love' and is in no way a comment in any shape or form on the religion itself. Also (literal) dicks are involved, if that will squick you out.

A cloak room really isn’t that secure or seductive but neither girls seem to give a fuck as Amren has Elain hanging off the coat hooks, her hips jutting forth to press her cunt yearningly against Amren’s chapped lips. She tastes like salt and acid but the tender skin of her clit and thighs is flush with floral notes. It makes Amren think of the day she saw her sprawled out with her girl friends on the front lawn, bathed in sunlight and flower crowns. Of how she always wears some seasonal flower woven in her hair, which she will enthusiastically inform you she grew herself on her dorm windowsill.

Given her doe eyes and cherub face and baby pink lipgloss, not to mention the fact that this was a Catholic all-girls boarding school, Amren had assumed she was more virginal than even Mother Mary claimed to be.

Nothing about the uninhibited groans birthing in her throat speak anything of chastity, nor the way she grabs Amren’s short hair to grind her deeper into her cunt. She is whispering a rapid prayer to their Lord above but Amren cannot make out if it begs for forgiveness or is merely exclaiming on how fucking hot it is to get eaten out ten feet and a door away from the rest of the student body. She decides it is the latter. Especially given how easily she comes.

“Christ almighty,” she profanes in her thick southern drawl that would be comical were she not so breathlessly genuine. Kneeling before her, Amren looks up and moves to explore that soft, freckled skin she has doted on so fondly, but her haven is faster. She bends down, grabs her bag and pecks Amren on the cheek in one fluid motion, then vanishes out of the door, tucking her panties back into place without so much as a second glance.

And those were the first words she ever said to her.

 

***

 

It had always pisses Amren off that St Augusta’s School - after many covert threats of a lawsuit - allows her to attend, but still insists she have her own dorm room. However, this injustice no longer seems so unjust when it means that Elain, without needing a suggestion as inspiration, utilises the privacy to sneak in and give her midnight blowjobs.

The first time she wakes her up first, but after a kiss-imbued discussion held in the private office of under the covers, they both agree that the best way to be awoken unexpectedly at midnight is through receiving oral sex from your secret, extremely illicit lover. Especially when she has a mouth like Elain’s.

Amren carries around a tube of her lipgloss with her during the school day, not because she wears any, but the sweet, slightly too-sweet citrus smell of it is enough to tide her over to the next time they can secret away into a bathroom stall or the confessional of the chapel. They fucked on the pews once at two in the morning, but whilst the fuck-you to the conservative nature of their particular school was novel, they proved just as uncomfortable for fucking on as for sitting upon during service.

She doesn’t know her favourite, though midnight blowjobs are definitely a contender. She’s never been that bothered by her dick. The only worry is Elain’s reaction, which isn’t even surprise; hell, she didn’t even blink when she first pushed up her nightgown and went straight down to business. The innocent virgin theory has definitely been disproved.

The blowjobs themselves aren’t anything special, Elain is as selfish there as she is when she’s receiving, luxuriating in the theatrics and enjoying herself just as much as her gasping lover, but the near darkness and the smell of her damp hair are Amren’s favourites. She loves the snuggling after and getting to comb her fingers through those thick copper curls, so foreign to her with her fine, thin black top.

Most of the time after she’s done teasing Amren into a messy orgasm, Elain ferrets herself back to her room with a kiss and sometimes a pressed flower - Amren keeps these neatly tucked within the passages of her favourite books, marking out those lines that make her think of her - but sometimes, on rare nights when she is quiet, less-smiling, more-touching, she stays the night.

They linger in bed sometimes, tangled up in one another’s soft girl limbs, speaking with breaths and small brushes. Other nights, restlessness possesses Elain with absent gazes and strange smiles, so they huddle upon the windowsill draped in blankets and books, and stare out at the black chambers of the sky. Amren knows all the stars, every one of them, and though Elain never asks and rarely speaks, she tells her their names and constellations one by one. She is never stopped, so she keeps on going. She dives into their myths and legends, countless stories fabricated for each one, anything, any story she can think of, just to keep talking, as if silence might drive her ghost away.

With her friends, the ones with long hair and well-dressed nails and necks, she is abundant in smiles and idle chatter, overflowing with adolescent girl giggles, but with Amren she empties. She does not know if this is a good omen or a warning. All she knows is that each hard-won smile makes her feel too warm and too proud for this to just be fucking on pews and sneaking around corridors.

She coats her pencils in lipgloss so citrus chases her scribbles, spends art class studying flowers and doodling plush lips in the most curious of half smiles. It feels a little bit like it might be love.

 

***

 

Detention is her most common occupation. “Fighting, again, Miss Sun?” Sister Rosa says as she always says, and Amren sits where she always sits, and they both choose not to talk about their separate resentments. Amren never really expected the school to do anything about what she refuses to call ‘bullying’, but the confirmation is still sore. But she swallows her anger and stares hard out of the windows at the lawn until her eyes don’t sting anymore.

“Heard you went psycho on Ama,” Elain says when she leaves, for she is waiting outside, leaning against the wall as if they know each other publicly. Amren thinks it might be born of genuine concern until she spots the tick in the corner of her mouth and the coolness in her gaze. She crosses her arms and looks past her. “She’s my best friend, you know.”

“I don’t care,” Amren says flatly, because this is who she has to be outside of cloakrooms and bed covers. Showing weakness is a costly luxury and she’s a social pauper around these halls. “People who use the T word get punched. Plain and simple. People who insist on the wrong pronouns get dismantled. Your best friend is a privileged brat who thinks stealing my clothes is a fun joke. I’m not sorry.”

Elain doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even look at her. She just shrugs, her shoulders clenched tight. “Don’t punch her.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re the one who gets in trouble.” Finally Elain meets her eyes, and there’s such cold rage in them that Amren’s stomach drops so fast it shows on her face, which is something she’s never allowed before. Not since coming here. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

She marches off without looking back, so Amren has to escape to the nearest bathroom so no one sees her cry.

 

***

 

Amarantha is screaming bloody murder, her face a violent shade of red as she is dragged down the halls by two Sisters. It is a delightful contrast to the carefree, laughing expression she wears in the hundreds of photos taped to the corridor walls. They appeared this morning, apparently out of nowhere, all down the dormitory halls with an extra special A3 poster version tacked to the door of the room she shares with Elain.

Happy photos are all well and good, it’s more the lines of coke on the science lab table that led to the staff being contact and a very swift, sharp response initiating. It doesn’t matter how much money Lisa’s parents funnel into the school when the entire student body has witnessed her thank god it’s friday rituals.

Certainly, Amren knows it’ll be rehab for her with no criminal record, and she’ll be off to another charming boarding school within a month or so, but she’ll never come back there. Her concern lies more with Elain, who is the colour of chalk and cornering herself as far back against her door as possible. Though they haven’t spoken in a week, Amren slips over to her side. It feels a lot like love, but not the kind she wanted.

“You okay?”

“Of course not,” Elain answers, quiet, but sounding much more composed than expected. “Getting those printed cost a bomb. I’m clean out for the rest of the term.”

Elain’s new roommate is Amren. She herself has no idea how Hell Wreathed in Flowers manages to swing such a thing with the staff, but she’s secretly afraid to ask after the Amarantha incident. The Ex-best friend has not been mentioned save for one brief reference to ‘that bitch’ which may or may not have been a reference to her father. It’s hard to tell these things with Elain.

“Which one of you is real?” Amren asks as she lies atop the other’s duvet, watching her relax in a face mask whilst she gets to play with and braid her hair. “The ever-smiling daddy’s girl, or…” She nearly say’s ‘my Elain’, which could have been fatal. Or perfect. She’s not sure - A problem she is suffering an awful lot lately. She is not used to untangling feelings, so used to being sure of herself and what she must strive and fight for. Now her heart and lungs and head’s a mess and she maybe even likes it because there’s mystery in this girl’s two faces and mystery is awfully rare these days.

Elain cracks one eye to stare at her, before saying in deadpan, like she’s a moron, “Which do you think?”

“I prefer this you. For what it’s worth.”

“You would do,” Elain says with a smile that Amren dares to think is a little fond. “But the world’s a lot easier if people underestimate you. Besides, they’re both real. One just has less consequences than the other.”

 

***

 

Spring Holidays spent at Elain’s estate are the closest thing to what Amren can imagine a true heaven to be. Her two sisters are absent, Nesta electing to remain at school whilst Feyre is in Paris with her friend Rhys perusing art galleries by day and glittering tourist traps by night. As always - or so Elain informs her nonchalantly - her father is off anywhere but home, for fear of coming face to face with one of his daughters.

Their familial past is rather gossiped about at school, and given how _most_ of the student body aren’t assholes like the absent Amarantha, Amren was able to do some research. She’s familiar with the fairytale-esque quality of their fall from grace thanks to their father’s alcoholism influenced poor choices, and their return to fortune when a shadowy patron sponsored better investments. Rumors were abound surrounding who this patron was, ranging from a romantic hunter with ambitions for one of the girls, to a melodramatic tragic aunt without an heir to turn to.

Perhaps it was shallow, but Amren doesn’t really care about a past that Elain seems to have deigned worthy of leaving behind. Her concern especially isn’t aided by how diverting Elain in sheer, floaty summer dresses is, or by how when home alone she is quite comfortable with strolling about naked.

Those days spent amongst blossoming warm sunrises are filled with lounging upon the grass, drinking whilst watching Elain care for her garden, and skinny dipping in the estate’s lake with water cold enough to excuse cuddling for warmth, kissing for warmth, crawling sodden onto the banks to dissolve into one another’s bodies all in the name of warmth. Those days are interwoven with perfume, morning dew squelching beneath bare feet, shrieks of laughter as they chase each other down the polished halls, and when they come to reflect on them later, they seem golden and rose, perfect, nostalgic things, even in the moment they were transpiring.

On the last night, they settle upon a picnic blanket out on the lawn and watch the sun set over the horizon, armed with a bottle of champagne and more fizzy rose than two girls could possibly drink, though they try their best. They gorge on bubbles until they are silly with drink, forgetting the sun and remembering the solace of each other’s touch.

“To us,” Amren toasts, though the drink long fell by the wayside, and all she has to toast with is a small brush of her nose against hers. Elain understands though, for that is her favourite thing that they share, a wordless understanding of a language transmuted through looks and what is left unspoken, one so many stumble through like eternal children. She smiles, and brushes her nose back.

“To us.”   

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing halloween prompts then side tangent-ed into a weird fluffy(ish) AU. Elain is an enigma to me. Maybe if I write enough AUs for her I'll figure her out.


End file.
